CDC: Creepy Dead Chicks
by Jed Rhodes
Summary: Britain has its own paranormal special forces team; PIC. Two PIC operatives end up in the middle of the events of F.E.A.R, and proceed to meet a bunch of very confused yanks, and creepy dead stuff...
1. Interval 1: Placing

Americans thought they knew everything. This was something British PITK (People In The Know) knew very well. Everyone in America's military especially thought they knew everything about everything and that everyone else knew nothing.

The reality might be a hell of a lot more complicated, but the British PITK and PWTC (People With The Cash) preferred the stereotypical, generalised version of how to deal with Americans. Namely, smile and nod, and do what the Yanks did, but better and behind their backs.

So when FEAR (First Encounter Assault Recon) was created, some British BAD (Berk At Desk) decided that the British forces should have a similar sort of thing. The British named them PIC (Paranormal Investigation and Combating) and stocked it with two types of soldiers; the Special Forces veterans, SAS types with good aims and tight lips, and the eccentrics from Regular Army who believed in all that ghost shit.

Jonathan Andrew Davison was definitely the latter. He was the sort of man who made it his business to know all the conspiracy theories, all that sort of shit, because he knew – he just knew – that one day it was going to pay off.

As it happens, one day it did.

* * *

Jon was one of about twenty Investigating Operatives (troops from PIC who went off to see if there was reason for more involvement) in PIC, and he was the only one who had never been on mission. So when the bossman, David Carmichael, called him up to the briefing room, he came eagerly.

Carmichael already had Jon's partner, a ABWA (Armed Bloke With Attitude) named Faraday, there.

"Jon," Carmichael said. "We're sending you to America."

"What did I do wrong?" Jon said.

"Nothing, but the yanks sure fucked up," Faraday said. "Some mate of an MI5 guy works for Armacham Tech Corporation in America, and they've got some serious problems with military clones and creepy dead shit."

"Our specialty," Carmichael smiled.

"And the FEAR team in America's," Jon reminded them.

"But they've not been too successful from what we've heard," Faraday said. "They sent in a team. So far, one's been thrown around and one's vanished from the face of Earth."

Jon sighed, and rolled his eyes.

"And you're sending us in," he said more than asked. It was too obvious.

"Yup," Carmichael said. "We're sending you and three squads of support, but you and Faraday have to assess the situation first. We'll brief you in full on the way."

"Great," Jon said, saluting lazily, and heading for his room. "I wanted a holiday."

* * *

Jon liked giving things Acronyms. In combat, this translated to stuff like, for example, DLAI (Die Like An Insect), UABAG (Use A Big Ass Gun) and EML (Eat My Lead). Faraday found this habit annoying.

They were not going to inform the Yanks they were there, because it would greatly piss the Yanks off. This was, in Jon's mind, FUBAR beyond FUBAR (and you really don't need a definition for that, do you?), because if the Yank team did attack them, they were screwed.

The three teams of support were all SAS type PIC operatives, all in the standard black combat fatigues of the PIC with the skull and wings emblem. The entire team was equipped with standard issue assault rifles. In short, they were ready for nothing except boggo standard infantry, and there was almost no chance of encountering that.

"Right," Faraday said in the helicopter. "Plan?"

"Plan?" Jon replied, glancing at him while checking his gun. "You're asking me?"

"You're the ghost jock," Faraday smiled.

"Huh," Jon snorted, standing up as the copter landed. "Remind me why we're here if we're not informing the Yanks?"

"Ours not to reason why," Faraday quoted.

"_You're there," _Carmichael said over the comm, "_because our MI5 guy said that his ATC guy said that the world is gonna end in a big ball of flame if someone doesn't do something, and he doesn't trust FEAR to do a goddamn thing."_

"Wow," Jon said, surprised gracing his features. "A straight answer from the brass. I'm going to have to check the sky for flying pigs later…"

"_Another time," _Carmichael's voice said. "_There's some kind of interference, we're lsoing contact..."_

And then the copter reached Fairport's Auburn District. Which had a mushroom cloud over it.

"Oh fucking hell," Faraday said.

"I'd call that interference," Jon said softly.

* * *

_How to react?_

He looked around the burnt and wrecked streets. There wasn't much to see. No people, no soldiers, no ghosts… although there was a weird feeling.

"You getting that?" he asked Faraday; the GG (Gun Guy) was a little ahead of him, and he glanced over his shoulder at Jon.

"What?" he asked.

"The feeling of CDS," Jon clarified. And then he clarified again. "Creepy Dead Shit."

"I'm getting a funny feeling," Faraday said, stopping and looking around, "but I don't think it's creepy dead shit."

"Right," Jon said, inwardly sighing at the man who _worked for a paranormal combating force_ and yet didn't believe in ghosts. "Of course."

Fuckin' sceptics. That's why the bloody PIC teams had to have one Regular Army and one SAS or other hard-arse – because all the bloody hard-arses wouldn't believe there were ghosts until they were having their arses handed to them by one, which surprisingly happened a lot more than it ought to.

"So…" Faraday said. "Given the Origin facility is in bits, and that there don't appear to be any creepy dead things or similar – why are we still here?"

Jon glared at him, before taking point. Command gave no answer – this close to where the explosion had happened, they could no longer contact Carmichael – but Jon didn't mind. CDS had to be fought, this was obvious.

He didn't know why, but he knew there was something up, something not quite ordinary going on…

**_Of course there is. There always is._**

He stopped. That voice had not been his.

**_Of course it wasn't, Jon. It was me._**

Jon tilted his head, and aimed his gun, his eyes widening. There was a man standing in the street, tall, wearing a leather jacket and sporting a crew-cut. Tall-ish, wearing a military style uniform… face covered in blood. A familiar face to one who had read the reports.

Paxton Fettel.

"Shit!" Jon swore, firing – but Fettel vanished.

"What the hell are you shooting at?" Faraday asked, stopping by Jon's side. Jon looked at him, but the other soldier didn't look as though he had seen anything untoward at all.

"Thought I saw a…" Jon said, and then he stopped.

"…right," Faraday said, before walking off. "Come on – some warehouses might have something to look at – you never know."

Jon nodded tightly – warehouses were perfect for finding creepy shit, which was technically their job – before walking after Faraday. And then he stopped.

He heard laughing. He turned on his feet and looked for the source of the noise; it was a girls voice, of that he was certain.

_FUBAR, man, FUBAR. CDC with PODAD._

Creepy Dead Chicks with Powers Of Death And Destruction.

Not the sort of thing he wanted to meet – even though it was technically his job – so he walked quicker after Faraday.

* * *

When they reached the warehousing area, they could see that someone had been busy – there were bodies lying all over the place, shot to bits with BAG and BAE (Big Ass Guns and Bigger Ass Explosives) and such. There was also gunfire from further in. Certainly, something had been busy around here.

"Replica's," Jon said. "Clone supersoldiers."

"Not so super," Faraday smiled. "Ok, now we know there's action coming up," he added, gun raised. At that, he ran forwards, eagerly – only to stop suddenly, as though he hit an invisible wall.

And then he began to float.

"What the fuck?" the hard-arse soldier swore. "What's going on?"

"Stay calm," Jon said, running forward to him, his paranormal-expert mind already working on what to do. "Creepy dead shit must have you in some kind of floaty-sort of grip… thing."

"THIS IS SUPPOSED TO HELP ME STAY CALM?" Faraday yelled. Jon looked around, but could see nothing that would indicate what had just happened.

And then he could.

There were humanoid apparitions, naked and grey and very dead and ugly looking – and they were coming right at him. His army training made him aim and fire, but his nerves shattered into bits like a shot, and he screamed at them.

"Argh! DLI! DLI!" he yelled, firing like hell. Faraday too, hanging in mid-air, opened fire, although some of his shots went wide – and then Paxton Fettel appeared.

"The fuck?" Faraday yelled from mid-air. "Fettel?"

"Oh, now you can see him!" Jon yelled. "Bloody brilliant!"

**_"You should not be here," _**the creepy cannibal psychic guy said to the PIC men. **_"This is none of your concern."_**

"Say that when I'm down on the ground, wanker!" Faraday screamed at Fettel, defiant to the last. Jon aimed a gun at Fettel, and started firing, but nothing happened except Fettel smiling.

**_"When you're on the ground?"_** he said. **_"As you wish."_**

And with that, Faraday hit the ground so fast that he made a minor impact crater and was squashed into several dozen small bits of dead thing and cloth, his gun smashed, his frame unrecognisable. Jon swore like hell and fired some more, but Fettel did nothing else except walk over to the dead man's mortal remains, and speak.

**_"You should not be here. This is none of your concern."_**

The cannibal smiled, and then turned to Jon.

**_"As for you,"_** he said slowly, **_"there is something about you. Something I cannot place. For that, you get to live; for myself at least. I cannot speak for _her_..."_**

And he vanished, along with his creepy dead shit, leaving Jon alone with his thoughts.

And the two guys aiming guns at his face, one an African American with a Delta uniform, one a balaclava wearing man with the FEAR uniform – in nice whitish grey – on.

"Um…" Jon said, hands rising slowly, "I can explain almost nothing… except," he added with a confident voice, "that I believe that it's all insanely FUBAR, and just a bit CAF."


	2. Interval 2: Encounter

**PIC: "Operation Light-up."**

**Objectives:**

**Determine the exact nature of the paranormal threat.**

**Prevent the paranormal threat from destroying the world.**

**Find out if the yanks make good tea (not entirely serious, but it might make good info).**

**Current mission status.**

**Fire support operative has been killed. Paranormal expert has made contact with unknown armed men. **

* * *

The first thing either of the burly, armed yanks said was when the one in the Delta Force uniform said, slowly, "CAF?"

Jon smiled nervously: they were talking now. It was cool.

"Creepy As Fuck," he clarified. "Some kind of creepy dead influence is…"

"We coulda told you that!" the Delta said, snapping suddenly in a way that made Jon feel slightly miffed – he'd been through a lot right now. "Look, who the fuck are you?"

"Jon Davison," Jon said. "I'm with the British Paranormal Investigation and Combating team."

"Brits…" the Delta said. "Why are you here?" he added, aiming his gun right at Jon's face.

"Classified…?" Jon tried, smiling nervously again – he hated ABWA's aiming guns at his face, it always made him nervous.

"Huh, like that's going to work," the Delta said, and he aimed the gun a little higher. Then the other guy – who appeared to be wearing a FEAR uniform – put his hand on the gun. He cocked his head in the direction the two Yanks had come from, and the Delta shot Jon a glance.

"If you're on our side, you'd better come with us," he said. "Otherwise stay the hell out of our way."

Jon laughed with relief as they walked off, and he followed eagerly. After Faraday's BUD (Bloody Ugly Death) he decided any help was better than none, especially the help of two _very_ serious looking ABWA's.

* * *

The FEAR guy – the Delta only ever called him the Point Man – never, ever fucking talked. Ever.

It made having conversations with him quite one sided, to say the least, and Jon Davison had happily inherited his mother's gossip gland; but never mind, he could deal with uncommunicative yanks. That was probably the best kind, although he felt slightly guilty for the thought.

As for the Delta – all Jon had gotten was the name Holiday, and nothing else. The Delta would happily talk to the bloody Point Man, but Jon got icy glares at best; typical disregard for British guys, probably, or something similar. Probably watched too many "tea drinking maniac" shows or "British bad guy" movies to think Brits were trustworthy. From what Jon had gathered, they were on their way to an Extraction Point at a hospital to meet up with another FEAR operative – Jin something or other. But he didn't bother asking for details. He didn't need to.

He also still couldn't get through to Carmichael, which made the other two doubt him even more, but since he wasn't a replica (obviously) they didn't shoot him – nor did either of them pay him much attention, which suited Jon fine.

He decided he couldn't be arsed with this shit, and snuck his IPod out and put it in one ear. He enjoyed MIR (Music Induced Relaxation) in combat situations, provided the CDC's didn't do FUES (Fucking Up Electrical Shit) which they almost always did – he remembered one who actually attacked through TV's… oh wait, that was a movie. Bah, easy to confuse the two in this situation.

_"#What we doin' when the? What we doin' when the? What we doin' when the Fatboy's slippin'…?"_

Jon smiled as he walked…

_… and then he was nowhere you could smile at. He was in… some kind of void. Almost instantly, he recognised it as a GIV – Ghost Induced Vision – but the knowledge wasn't helpful. In fact, it made it worse._ _At least Fatboy Slim was still playing. And oh look, there was someone else here._

_A little girl in a red dress, who was – amazingly – dancing._

_A little girl._ _With long black hair._ _That – at least partially – covered her face._ _And at least one visible injury – bloody feet._

Criteria one, two and three, _Jon thought, with a sinking feeling. _Onryo. Vengeance ghost. _Creepy Dead Chick._

Well, let's try the peaceable approach, _Jon thought, raising his hand slowly and making the peace sign._

_"Hello?" he tried. The girl stopped dancing, and looked at him._

_"Have you got anything else good?" she asked. "Fatboy Slim's not my favourite."_

_"Uh…" ok, this was not the answer he was expecting from a CDC, but then everyone was different, even among the dead. "Have a look."_

_He got his IPod out and showed her the songs. Some Housemartins, Gorillaz, Muse, Blur, Weird Al Yankovich…_

_"I like Elvis," the little girl said suddenly._

_"Who, Presley?" Jon asked. He had a bit of Presley._

_"No, Costello," she said. "Have you got any?"_

_"Hey sure," Jon aid, deciding he preferred a CDC who liked his taste in music to a CDC who wanted to rip him to bits…_

**That bit comes later,** _he heard an unfortunately familiar voice say, and he glanced up to see Paxton Fettel staring at him. He ignored the cannibal guy in the hope that he would go away, and put 'Miss Macbeth' by Elvis Costello on. The CDC stayed listening to it for a moment, and then it reached the chorus…_

"#…how can you miss what you never possessed…?"

_And then the girl _screamed…_ and Jon was thrown back…_

* * *

And found himself staring at the balaclava clad face of the FEAR Point Man, who was leaning over him. Clearly Jon had been knocked over.

"You met her," he said. It was not a question.

"You can talk?" Jon yelled.

"Hey, sense of perspective man," Holiday said. "You just met the creepy dead bitch behind all this crap."

_Great_, Jon said. "Is that meant to make me feel better?"

"No," the Point Man said. "You have to be very careful of her."

"No shit, genius," Jon said with a glare. "Look, she didn't do anything until the chorus of _Miss Macbeth…_"

"The chorus of _what?"_ Holiday said.

"It's a song by Elvis Costello," Jon said. To Holiday's questioning look, he added, "I played her my IPod, 'cos she asked. Seemed like a GIATT."

"… Good Idea At The Time?" Holiday guessed.

"Yeah," Jon smiled – Holiday was getting the hang of this. "Anyway, we go to the chorus and she flipped…"

"How does the chorus go?" the Point Man asked, standing up. Jon followed suit, and tried to remember. He didn't sing (bad idea) but instead spoke, slipping into "speech mode" voice, where he elucidated like a nutter.

"'And every day she lives out another love song, it's a tearful lament of somebody done wrong, but how can you miss what you never possessed…'"

"That must have been it," the Point Man said. "The thing she never possessed was her children."

"Huh?" Jon asked.

The Point Man sighed.

"It's a long story…"

And it was. One of mad scientists, Alma Wade, fucked up fire-fights and insane relations. Somehow the softly spoken Point Man condensed it all into twenty minutes talking. When the FEAR man had finished, Jon could only repeat the word "FUBAR" in a very soft whisper.

"I knew," he said after a long while, "that I should have played Coal Train Robbery."


	3. Interval 3: Targets

**PIC: "Operation Light-up."**

**Objectives:**

**Determine the exact nature of the paranormal threat.**

**Prevent the paranormal threat from destroying the world.**

**Find out if the yanks make good tea.**

**Current mission status.**

**The operative has made contact with the paranormal threat. He is now proceeding with SFOD-D operative Douglas Holiday and the FEAR Point Man to their prearranged extraction point.**

**Further to this, preliminary investigation team has gone missing. All attempts to re-establish contact have failed.**

* * *

**Genevieve Aristide's Penthouse. 3 hours earlier.**

Sometimes, it is easier to say "investigate" than to do it. This was the case in the experience of recently-transferred-from-the-Royal-Marines-and-regretting-it-already trooper Aaron Lewis, who was currently being shot at by a bunch of Delta Force twats who seemed to have mistaken him for Armacham security. His mate George Stewart (George was a good bloke – polite, good shot, calm under fire. In every way he was the best of the UK's armed forces) had unfortunately taken a round or five to the head from the ATC black ops bastards.

"I keep yelling that I'm with the fucking British Army!" he yelled. "I'm here to investigate the bloody ATC mess!"

They weren't listening. Typical. He sighed, and unleashed a spray of fire designed to make the morons take cover. They must have been watching too much in the way of Hollywood movies, where British actors almost always played the villain. Meh, if they wanted to try and shoot him down, so be it. He was a marine. He would deal with it. He always dealt with it, even being transferred to this fucktarded excuse for a unit. No, he could deal with anything, and when he found out who the fuckers were who were shooting at him, he'd beat them fucking senseless.

Of course, there was, as there always was, _one_ thing he didn't expect, nor did he have the ability to deal with it if it ever did happen. The thing he really, really could not deal with was a fucking massive nuclear (or at least it fucking looked nuclear) explosion going off right near the window he was looking at.

The last thing he heard was his own voice, going "oh shit," then the darkness took him.

* * *

When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. It was not good. He didn't like hospitals, not one bit – he was a soldier and if you were in an hospital, that usually meant bad things had happened to you.

He sat up, and found himself still in uniform. He blinked, and looked up.

A yank in Delta Force uniform was looking at him. A fair few thoughts, most of them unpleasant, considering the fact that Delta Force jocks had shot at him before, went through his head, but he decided on the most polite, and therefore most stereotypically British attitude.

"Hello," he said, wincing slightly at his accent's over-polite Received Pronunciation. Nobody took him seriously until he started breaking heads because he sounded like he should be reciting Shakespeare. He could, in fact, recite Shakespeare, but he preferred Rugby.

"Hi," the yank said, breaking Lewis's reverie. "I'm Sergeant Michael Becket."

"Private Lewis," Lewis said in reply. "Paranormal Investigation and Combating, former Royal Marine."

"Nice." Becket didn't seem very talkative. Well fine, Lewis didn't feel like talking much either.

"Wanna go find a gun?" Lewis said after a moment.

"Hell yes," Becket smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

Meanwhile, back in the warehouse section, the rag-tag little team of the FEAR Point Man, Douglas Holiday and Jon Davison wandered into the large, rectangular room; and a phone was ringing.

"Maybe it's somebody asking about the double glazing," Jon deadpanned.

"Somehow I doubt it," Holiday replied, having gotten used to the wisecracking. The Point Man picked up the phone – and a scream ripped through the room from the phone.

"Ok…" Holiday said.

"Heard worse," Jon said with a deadpan voice.

**_Have you?_**

Jon ignored the voice of Fettel as the others walked ahead of him. They came to a great big open space, where a few random noises started occurring in a part of the scaffolding.

"Point, go check that out," Holiday said.

"Are you nuts?" Jon said before the Point Man could follow the order. "This is a CDC situation. We have to stick together."

"We have to know what's running around," Holiday said calmly.

"We know what's running around," Jon replied. "CDS, CDC, and other ugly dead things. I don't see that we need to know more."

"Agreed," the Point Man said, and Holiday sighed.

"Come on then," he said. The three of them walked up to a gate, and Holiday opened it, before the three of them were suddenly forced to take cover by Replica fire.

"Bollocks!" Jon yelled, firing back, catching two Replica's quickly. The Point Man started – and Jon couldn't believe this – shooting dozens of them, spraying fire so quickly and accurately that it was almost inhuman.

"What the hell?" Jon said. Holiday ran by him, giving him a look that clearly said, "he does that." Jon shrugged, and followed the Delta, as the Point Man quickly slew every Replica in sight. He followed the two through two more rooms filled with the dead – a sad sight, and an ugly one – before coming to a door that looked buckled.

"Some of these people killed each other," Holiday said, looking over the corpses of the people who had tried to take shelter here.

"No shit," Jon said quietly. Holiday walked over to a door. He looked to the Point Man, and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not exactly burning with curiosity about what's on the other side, are you?" he asked.

Jon shook his head, but Holiday kicked the door in anyway, and the Point Man followed him in. Jon followed slowly, seeing the massive warehouse room, and then he heard Holiday say "this is not right…"

He arrived as they came to an open space in the warehouse with blood covering it.

"Stop," he said. "That's a target, right there, in the blood."

Holiday looked down at the blood, and looked back at Jon.

"So…?" he asked.

"So, if you stand in it, shit will happen," Jon said. "We are in a HMS."

"Her Majesties Service?" Holiday asked.

"No, Horror Movie Situation," Jon clarified. "Stand in that target, you're screwed; the trope is quite specific."

"Oh come on," Holiday sneered. "You telling me that you think this is a horror movie? What are you, retarded? Here…"

And with that, Holiday stood in the target, hands on hips, and glared right at Jon with a self-satisfied smirk.

"See?" he said after a moment. "Nothing goddamn happened."

And the lights went out.

And then the lights started flashing off and on, revealing in due course, creepy dead shit.

Then Holiday lifted, and was thrown into a wall, then a ceiling, and chucked around. Jon watched the Point Man try to help him, and watched him fail.

"I did warn you," Jon said softly, but he didn't raise his voice. "Damn."

The Point Man ran out of the room. Jon skirted the target, and walked after him, in time to see Holiday's body dragged through the window. And explode, of course.

"BUD," Jon said. "Bloody Ugly Death."

The Point Man said nothing, instead choosing to vault a fence. Jon decided to follow him, because quite frankly, there wasn't much else he could do.

He briefly wondered how the rest of PIC were doing.

* * *

Lewis hated creepy dead shit. Which was particularly bad given that it was technically his job to deal with creepy dead shit, but just because he hated it didn't mean he was bad at dealing with it, just that he wished he didn't have to.

The creepy dead bitch was coming right at him, having already killed the poor, unfortunate Fox, and Lewis had no other option.

"Bullshit…" he said, aiming the gun, "so alright, you ugly...dead bitch! Come here and eat Brit-issue lead!"

He fired at her. She looked at him, unconcerned with the bullets. And then she was right in front of him, and grabbing at his throat.

_"Any last words…?" _and there her voice was, whispering in his head; he hated it, it was horrible, he _hated_ it.

"Yeah," he said. "Fucking speak up you bitch."

And then darkness took him.


	4. Interval 4: Location

**PIC: "Operation Light-up."**

**Objectives:**

**Determine the exact nature of the paranormal threat; ACHIEVED, SEE FILE UNDER CDC.**

**Prevent the paranormal threat from destroying the world by any means necessary.**

**Current mission status.**

**Delta Force Operative Douglas Holiday has been killed. PIC operative and the FEAR Point Man are en route to the Point Man's Extraction Point at the top of the Auburn Memorial hospital.**

**In addition, there are unconfirmed reports that there is a survivor from the preliminary investigation team sent to acquire information on ATC from Genevieve Aristide's Penthouse. **

**PIC command considering sending reinforcements.**

* * *

Surely there was no way on Earth that he could have survived that. No way on Earth that that evil dead bitch could have failed to kill him. And yet, he was vaguely certain he was still alive. His headache certainly felt real,. And pain was life, so…

Still alive. Ok. Confirmed. Lewis's eyes opened, and Becket looked down at him.

"You still alive?" he asked, concern in his face and voice. _Nice to be liked_.

"No, I'm a bloody walking corpse," Lewis said irritably. Then he felt the blood leave his face as he realised precisely what he had just said, and what he had just fought. "Bullshit… that thing was… what was it?"

"I don't know any more than you," Becket said, frowning slightly. "Apart from her name. Alma, I think."

"Alma?" Lewis said. "Whoop de do, creepy dead bitch has a name. This is way too mad..."

"Are there any more of your guys about?" Becket asked, as Lewis picked up a gun and checked it.

"Might be," the PIC gunman said. "What about yours?"

"My squad's around here somewhere, but we'll have a time finding them," Becket said. "Hang on…" Lewis said, holding up a hand. "I'll try to contact more of my lot. There's bound to more somewhere."

Lewis activated his radio and tried all the frequencies…

* * *

_"This is Private Lewis, PIC, to any operatives…"_

Jon wasn't listening at this point. He was a bit busy hallucinating blue lights and flying architecture. He and the Point Man apparently shared the ability to see Alma's hallucinations, but that was not anything that could be helped.

"Ok," the Point Man said, when they came to a fork in the road in what Jon prayed was the real hospital. "You go one way, I'll go the other. We'll meet up on the other side."

SUABM. Splitting Up At Bad Moments. This was normally something Jon didn't like, but all the resistance the two men were encountering was light enough for one to deal with, and they might actually have a chance to get to – Jin Sun Kwon? Jon thought that was her name, but he wasn't certain. They might have a chance to get her when she was still alive, if they split up now. And that last message had been rather… plaintive.

So it was that Jon made his way up the stairs, while he did not know where his comrade and counterpart had ended up.

"Jin Sun Kwon?" he called out. "Hello?"

Nothing.

_…Shit._

That was just what he didn't need. To be looking for some random woman who'd scream as soon as she saw him and for her to not even be responding which would no doubt piss of the yank with a gun…

_And then he was back in the hallucinatory world as fast as he had left it the last time._

Holy shit,_ he thought, raising his gun and aiming it into the darkness and the fire. Then there was a flash and he was in a corridor like a jail cell. He paused, and began wandering down the corridor…_

_Another flash and he was in one of the cells, standing next to an old man with a battered coat and glasses, who was sitting in a corner, looking at the window of the cell._

_"Um, hello," Jon said, trying to be polite. The man looked at him, his eyes empty and dead, then back at the cell window._ _There was a CDC at the window, naked and emaciated. Jon aimed his gun, but she ignored it._

_"Leave her," the man said suddenly. "We deserve our fate."_

_"You might, mate, I've never see her before," Jon replied sharply._

_"We all deserve our fate," the old man said, his voice tired and dead. Jon looked at him incredulously, then turned to stare at the door – the CDC was gone. Jon sighed._

_"I hope you're happy mate," he said, annoyed as hell by the old man's reluctance to help, or indeed, say much at all. Reminded him of the Point Man... "who are you, anyway?"_

_The old man looked at him, and removed his glasses._

_"I'm Harlan Wade," he said after a long moment. "I was one of ATC's top researchers."_

_"And you're here because…?" Jon asked._

_"She killed me," Wade smiled. And then, somehow, Jon didn't want to think about the details, Harlan Wade turned into a demonic… thing…! _

_Jon opened fire._

_There was a scream… _

CDC with PODAD. He hated them, he truly did. They never let up, not even when you pumped them full of bullets.

"Please…" a woman's voice was saying. "You have to help me. They're coming for me."

He looked up, and there was a woman in uniform crouched in a corner, looking at him with wide eyes. Jon stood up, looked around, and motioned to her. She came over to him.

"Jin Sun Kwon, First Encounter Assault Recon," she introduced herself.

"Jon Davison," Jon replied with a smile. "Random weirdo, PIC."

"PIC?" she asked, ignoring the first part.

"I'll explain later," Jon said, looking around with a vaguely disconcerting feeling in his head. There was something wrong, he just knew it…

"Ok," he said. "We have to meet up with the Point Man."

Jin nodded, and the two of them moved across the room, slowly at first, but then with a renewed sense of purpose. He had found Jin. He moved to report his success to the Point Man… but then, to his horror, Jin Sun-Kwon suddenly vanished into thin air in a cloud of ashes

And there was a naked creepy dead chick staring right at him.

"Oh holy shit!" he screamed, and he fired indiscriminately in her direction…

And she vanished. There was no sign of Jin Sun Kwon, or the Point Man.

"Great," Jon murmured. There was nothing else for it, now. He put on his IPod, and selected the Imperial March, Rage remix, and put it on repeat. "Only one thing can help me. Loud fucking music. Beat John Williams, bitch."

He hefted his gun, and moved on.

* * *

Lewis hated his job. There was no reply, meaning either no more PIC teams had landed, or that they were all dead, or worse. That none had landed indicated that PIC command thought that he and his mate George (poor George) were dead. True in George's case, but not Lewis'.

"As soon as this is over," he said to Becket, "I'm quitting."

"Don't blame you," Becket said. "I signed on to get a suit out of a penthouse, not to have a pissed off dead chick come after me."

"Meh," Lewis said. "It could have been worse. At least we don't have to watch a shitty home movie."

"Ha!" Becket barked out a laugh, and the two men continued walking down a corridor. "I hear you. Though compared with this shit, Samara Morgan would be a cake-walk."

"Shoot the TV," Lewis and Becket said together, and both laughed.

"Why dyou reckon she's after us?" Lewis asked.

"Something to do with the operation…" Becket said. "The guys at this hospital did something to me."

"Well, whatever they did, I doubt they intended it to include the living dead," Lewis reasoned. Becket said nothing as they entered the lift that would get them out of the blasted hospital.


	5. Interval 5: Escape

**_AN; the chapters before this have been edited slightly._**

**PIC: "Operation Light-up."**

**Objectives:**

**Extract surviving initial team members.**

**Prevent the paranormal threat from destroying the world by any means necessary.**

**Current mission status.**

**PIC Initial Insertion Operative's signal has been located in the Auburn hospital – a PIC helicopter has been dispatched.**

**The PIC PIT (Preliminary Investigation Team) survivor has also been located at Wade elementary, and is being supported by members of the SFOD-D Dark Signal team**

* * *

Whatever kind of insanity this was, he was getting bloody sick of it. CDC, CDS, CUB, BUD, WAP, AAY… (Creepy Dead Shit, Cannibalistic Ugly Bastards, Bloody Ugly Deaths, Weird Arse People, Awfully Annoying Yanks…) he was sick of dealing with the lot of them. Just fucking sick. Sick to the back teeth, front teeth, and quite possible the mouth cavity itself. Obviously the PITK hadn't guessed just how much weird shit was going down, because if they had, surely they would have sent an army, not just two guys with guns, because two guys with guns were nothing – _nothing_ – compared to the shit that Jon had seen.

_I should write a book about this if I live,_ he thought. _Ok, calm down. Try to focus. Remember your training._

Training that had for the most part focused on how to kill living, breathing people with pulses and rifles, not the walking dead, floating dead, crawling dead and the just generally persistently-around dead, all of which were armed with minds more deadly than any poxxy little rifle. Except the H620 laser rifle Jon had tried once – now that shit was the win! – but he didn't have one on him.

"Imperial March wins," he said, walking through the empty corridors, the Rage Mix blaring through his head from the IPod headphones.

He stopped suddenly, his heart freezing as a chill descended on the room, and even the music seemed dimmed in his ears; that could only mean one thing.

"Ok," he said suddenly. "I know that feeling."

He spun around, and found himself facing Paxton Fettel. Fettel was smiling at him, and the CDC was nowhere to be seen, and he seemed to notice Jon's frantic looking around.

**_"I shouldn't worry about my mother," _**the apparition of Fettel said. **_"She's a little busy at the moment dealing with my brother."_**

"Yeah, I met your brother. He doesn't talk much," Jon said, snarkily. "I wish you'd follow his fucking example."

**_"But I have so much to say," _**Fettel smiled, walking forward. Jon aimed his gun at the CUB's head and frowned at him. **_"And you are so fascinating. Your country had no business being here, and yet here you are…"_**

"That's BAD's for you," Jon said. Fettel tilted his head quizzically, and Jon clarified. "Berks at Desks."

A giggle from behind Fettel signalled the arrival of the CDC – Alma Wade. Jon shifted his gaze to her with a frown, and she copied the face exaggeratedly, before bursting out laughing.

Jon, quite frankly, nearly shat his pants.

_"You don't need to be afraid," _she said.

He did shit his pants – metaphorically.

* * *

The city was a wreck; ashes, ashes and more ashes. Bodies, made of ashes. Buildings and vehicles crumbling to ashes. Just ashes in general.

Oh, and the monsters of course. Lots and lots of monsters.

Lewis emptied bullet after bullet into the puppet master, but nothing worked. After the hospital, after Vanek, after Alma Wade and those fucking abominations, he was damned if a fucking bloke who couldn't walk and had red shit coming from his hands would get him.

"Try something a bit more heavy duty!" he yelled at Becket, who'd just emptied a clip to no avail. The thing might have been feeling the bullets – judging by the yelling – but it wasn't being slowed down.

Becket nodded, and threw a grenade. The puppet master yelled – the grenade landed in its gob in what could only be called a one in a million shot.

The thing's head exploded.

"Whoa," Becket said, walking up to its remains. "Hope there's no more of these things lying about."

"Amen," Lewis said. "C'mon, let's go find your lot."

They headed off through the ashes. Lewis felt a sense of foreboding, but never mind. That was getting quite common.

When they got to Stokes' position, she said nothing about the PIC man – since there were snipers all over the place, Lewis couldn't blame her.

"Becket," he said, "I'll wait here." He fancied talking to the woman – not for _that_ reason, of course, he hadn'rt thought about a woman like that since his ex-wife – but Lewis had a time explaining himself to the Delta bird (weren't they all meant to be men? Oh well, he wasn't complaining; if his ex had been here, the Replica's would have fucking run away shitting themselves), since technically, none of the PIC were meant to be on American soil, but still, it could have been worse. Becket looked as though he was having a time of it.

"He's a fucking machine," Lewis commented.

"Always has been," Stokes replied, looking up where the guy was. Lewis gave her a look. "What?" she asked.

"Nothin'," the PIC man said.

"There's nothing like that going on," she said, catching on.

"Why not?" Lewis asked. They were saved from answering by the death of the last sniper, and they moved quickly.

* * *

Jon scrambled away from the two monstrosities – well, he had to call them something and that felt like a good choice – but everywhere he went, they seemed to follow him. Eventually, he got to a dead end, and they were watching from the other side.

"**Now that isn't nice,**" Paxton Fettel said, approaching him, Alma behind him. "**We're just trying to talk."**

"Well, all you ever say is go away or die, so I get the picture," Jon replied, trying to sound like he wasn't scared shitless. The CDC was glaring daggers at him, metaphorically speaking – he never liked daggers in general, especially eye ones, especially CDC eye ones. "I didn't even do anything to you!"

"**But you see, that's the thing,"** Fettel said. "**Everyone deserves to die. And they will."**

"And then what?" Jon yelled. "Will that make anything better?"

Fettel paused, and looked at Alma, who looked up at him.

"_No,"_ she said, "_but it'll be fun."_

Jon swore, and emptied his rifle into the two. And he anticipated, no effect.

"Fuck this," he said. "Kill me then."

Fettel looked at the CDC, and Alma looked right at Jon, who suddenly had _the worst headache_ in the world…

And suddenly, a locked door crashed open and the F.E.A.R Point Man burst in. He said nothing (obviously) but Jon recognised the opening for what it was. He ran in the door and followed the trail of dead bodies (Replica's, mostly, but the odd member of the hospital staff and Delta Force showed up as well), ignoring the screaming of Wade and the gunfire behind him. If the Point Man was Fettel's brother, then surely he'd be fine.

Suddenly John felt like a real coward. He suppressed the feeling as he ran further down, passing the dead body of Jin Sun-Kwon (cursing inwardly at yet another death at Wade's hands) then ran straight out the front door into the night.

"Screw you all, dead bitches!" he yelled. He kept running for a long minute, then looked up.

To see an explosion at the top of the building, and the remains of a helicopter crashing down right on top of him.

"Oh fuck," he swore, softly, and then blackness took him.


	6. Interval 6: Progression

_Interlude._

David Carmichael was a suit, and he knew that his being a suit meant people thought less of him - he was as concerned with budgets as he was with winning and his troop's lives - but he prided himself on being a very clever suit. He knew when to commit and when to hold back.

Jacob Faraday was one of his old friends. A very old friend in fact. It had irked Carmichael sending him into battle, especially the kind of insane, fucked up battle that he had ended up sending him into, but Faraday had been tough and resilient, well trained and battle hardened after ten years of SAS service; a true example of the British military's finest men.

And now he was dead, all life readings apparently discontinued. Whatever fucked up shot was happening in Fairport had killed him minutes into his and Davison's mission (Davison, somehow, had survived, a fact Carmichael was eager to question him about as soon as the mission was over, Davison's own low chance of surviving notwithstanding), which, reasonably enough, pissed off Carmichael no end. But that wasn't why he was committing more troops.

SAS battle hardened, ten years' service. Dead within minutes. Yeah, like Carmichael wasn't going to send more men in. They needed every last one. Sighing as he realised this meant PIC would have to reveal it's motives to the Americans, Carmichael placed a call. He knew Rowdy Betters well enough that he knew the FEAR Co-ordinator would be pissed off as hell. 

* * *

**Operation Light-up**

New objective: PIC operatives to link up with surviving FEAR and SFOD-D forces to attempt to locate the source of the paranormal and neutralise/destroy it. Ten squads of six men are being sent in to expedite matters, and FEAR Co-ordinator Rowdy Betters will be in command on the ground.

**Current mission status. **

**The PIC PIT (Preliminary Investigation Team) survivor has been located and is supported by surviving members of Delta Force team "Dark Signal".**

**Initial Insertion Operative has been located, however his position seems to have relocated swiftly from Auburn Hospital back to near initial insertion point. A team has been despatched.**

* * *

Things were not going well for Lewis and Team Dark Signal; "Top", the Delta's leader, had met an unfortunately grisly demise at the hands of the insane dead bitch. Well, not the hands – more the giant ghostly tentacle things. Even worse was the death of Snake Fist, the only person to seemingly know anything relevant regarding this shit, at the hands of a Replica Assassin. Needless to say, the mood was grim, although the team did now have a lead as to a sort of plan they could attempt to implement.

Lewis however was not busy listening to them discuss this plan. He was busy listening to the faint radio signals he was getting.

"…repeat, this is Carmichael to any surviving PIC troopers, come in, requesting immediate report on the situation…"

Lewis smiled.

"Guys," he said to the Dark Signal crew, "I might just have good news…"

* * *

The thing that surprised Jon when he woke up wasn't really being alive - after all, plenty of dead people were still running around apparently conscious, having had much worse than a helicopter being dropped on their heads. No, what bothered him more was that he seemed to have woken up right next to Faraday's impact crater from earlier that night.

"Ok," he said irritably, trying to get up but failing. He sighed and tired again, managing to get a vaguely steady bearing. "Not cool."

There was a lot of shooting going on nearby - lord only knew who and what was shooting - but Jon was getting sick of all this crap - CDC's and gun toting supermen and ghosts of cannibals and a million other crazy things, although he was half convinced that everything had happened in the last day or so - for him anyway - had been a massive GIV. Jon thought about it and decided that he would try to leave ASAP.

Of course, deciding that and actually doing it were two totally different things, especially given the number of armed men now aiming weapons at him. Six troops in total, all aiming at his face. 'At least not the balls,' he thought wryly.

Fortunately, they were wearing the familiar PIC uniform, and one of them stepped forward, lowering his gun.

"I'm Lieutenant Andrew Carstairs," he said, voice rough with a definite cockney accent that belied the name and rank (as if anyone believed the "posh officer" Clive anymore anyway). "Mind telling me your report, soldier?"

Deadly seriously, Jon looked him in the eye. "Would you accept 'FUBAR,' sir?"

A long moment passed. "If that's all you have," Carstairs finally said, sighing irritably.

"Actually, sir," Jon replied, "I can give a report with terminology and in depth..."

Carstairs cut him off with a sharp motion of the hand. "'FUBAR' will do fine, soldier. Now, let's try to make heads or tails of this situation."

"Sir, we've received new orders," one soldier, with what appeared to be a large radio – probably with a signal booster inside – put in – as far as Jon could tell, they were almost all ABWA, which he supposed was a good thing now that Jon had pretty much confirmed the presence of ghostly shit.

"What are they, McGrew?" Carstairs put in.

"Apparently someone's figured out how to kill the creepy dead chick, sir," McGrew said. Jon grinned – this "McGrew" might be a ghost jock after all. "We've been told to report to Still Island Nuclear Facility."

"Oh, I hate nukes," Carstairs sighed. "Alright lads, let's move it!"

* * *

Lewis and Becket were having the time of their lives. No, not really. In fact, quite the opposite; Becket was trying to shoot Replica's from his turret in the APC and Lewis was currently holding down a struggling Keegan.

"Stay the fuck down!" he yelled at the man, who was trying to get to a bright light from which an ominous and all too familiar whispering was issuing. "I said stay down!" he added, knocking the man out in the process. Thankfully, the white light seemed to be fading, as did the whispering.

"Plan then, oh fearless bosswoman?" he asked Stokes as the fighting subsided.

"You and Becket go through where the light was," the Lieutenant replied. "See what the hell's going on. We'll meet you at the facility."

Becket was already moving, and once Morales had Keegan covered, Lewis took off after his new mate. Typically, there were already bodies lying around and shooting up ahead. By the time Lewis had reached Becket, there were a dozen dead replicas lying around.

"You don't mess around do you?" he asked. There was no reply from the Delta. "Funny how you're meant to be the only hope for the world and she sends you and me off on our own through subways, without any real backup whatsoever..."

Again, no answer. Lewis sighed - one of those days...

"Your people should meet us there, right?" Becket asked suddenly.

"Yeah," Lewis replied smiling.

"Good," Becket grinned back. "I like you Brits. You have good gallows humour."

"Gallows humour is good," Lewis agreed. "Although I wish I wasn't on the gallows when I was delivering it."


End file.
